And She Can Weep
by magicfingerrs
Summary: After teaching Christine for years, Erik finally begins to notice her as more than a little girl. When he decides to act on his fantasies, will it be pleasurable for both of them? NC, EC, Minor, Explicit Sex


_This was not about power._

Not about power, but about fulfilling primal male needs. Erik had lived in his tomb far too long; the feel of a woman's flesh upon his was nearly forgotten. But it wasn't; no, not quite yet. For the very idea of burrowing himself deep within his angel's depths was enough to satiate his needs. Or at least, it had been. Not anymore. He had tortured his soul more then enough, insisting to himself that being her idol and mentor was enough, that he really _didn't_ need her as a body, but he was beyond that now.

All his excited mind could think of as he rowed himself across the canal was _her._ Not so much the Christine he had fantasized about for years; her sweet soul and gentle heart, but _Christine._ Her body, her voice, her virginity- her. Sex and music had always provided him with a cretin euphoria- a comfort and escape from the world around him. When he was a child, the mindless taunts and cruel punishments he received didn't mean a damn to him; all he wanted was some semblance of civility, which he only found in one place. His music. In his music, he could block out his mother's disgust, his father's fist, and the shouts of the children he should've been friends with.

But as he grew older, music began to only increase his fury, his impatience and his desire. He longed for _contact._ Contact was something he had been denied his entire life, and when he made the Opera Populaire his home, he became intent on making up for lost time.

At night he visited the finest brothels and whorehouses, places where he could easily spot high-ranking society messiahs, enjoying liquor and cunts. He brought his money up to the Madam and simply said, "Your newest girl." She nodded immediately and ran off to find someone matching his sketchy needs, realizing by the sack of money in her hands that the man must be quite powerful.

Not even five minutes later, Erik was in the brothel's finest _suite_ with a girl hardly older then twenty. He tried to be gentle with her, and even wiped at her tears when he entered her. He finished quickly and cleaned himself up, then thought to ask about the girl.

He learned that her mother had been a Madam at the very same brothel, and her father was a wealthy patron. Erik wasn't her first, she informed him, but damn near to it, which was the reason for her tears. The whole time she told her tale, Erik listened, captivated, and began feeling a warm glow of understanding fill him. She had been forced into a life of selling her body too! Perhaps they shared a bond, he thought sadly. In all of his years at the carnival he had been subject to the worst sort of rape and beatings imaginable.

Erik left the brothel that night feeling, for the first time in years, satisfied, and he knew that he would return soon.

Over the next few years he did just as he predicted, and enjoyed his fair share of women. When he returned for the second time, he overheard the girl he had been with giggling with her friends, sounding like she was telling a funny story. The funny story, he learned, was him, a "mysterious masked virgin."

In the next couple of minutes, Erik learned that her mother had not, in fact, been a Madam at the brothel, and that she had chosen to work there. In reality, her parents were wealthy socialites who had coddled her as a child and wept for days upon hearing of her career choice.

_"Fool." she laughed. "He believed every lie from my mouth! He even wiped away my crocodile tears!"_

Erik was furious; that bitch had humiliated him beyond belief. All he ever wanted was acceptance! He never even presumed to ask for love, merely acceptance! And she made him into a joke, a plaything for others to laugh at. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was far too much like that he had suffered at his years in the circus; he needed revenge, _now._

That night, he requested the same girl again, and made her understand the pain she had put him through. When he left that night, the other women gasped at the bruises covering her body.

Eventually, Erik came to bed every whore at the _Habanera_ inn, and he moved on to others. Soon, he had enough tales to make Casanova himself blush. When his music just couldn't satisfy him, he took a woman. When an opera failed, and his heart was broken, a woman sliding upon his shaft fixed it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he wanted something he had never had before. He wanted his Christine, the only female he ever knew that wouldn't throw sexual favors at the highest bidder. Not because she was an overly virtuous girl, but simply because she was too damn innocent to know practically anything about sex. He chuckled at the memory of her stunned expression when La Sorelli and the other ballet rats had tried to explain exactly what happened on a woman's wedding night. She looked almost as distraught as she had when Madame Giry had first brought her to the Opera Populaire.

Not that she had any reason to. Christine was, in a word, perfect. From the moment Erik had first set eyes on her, when she was but a little girl, only seven, he had been captivated. At first, his attraction was nothing more then amazement, perhaps even something fatherly that he felt towards the dimple cheeked little girl who had lost her father. She used to cry, horribly, begging for her father to come back, wailing that she missed him so. And though Erik prided himself on feeling no emotions towards other humans, he felt her broken cries tug at his heart.

He comforted her, and even came to her at night, picking her up from her bed and carrying her out to the rooftop, where he promised her that her father was, in fact, one of the many winking stars in the sky above her. He frightened her at first, with his tall and muscular physique and glaring white mask, but his voice was gentle, almost like her fathers, and so her fears eventually dissipated.

And so over the years, he began to teach how to sing, for he sensed great potential in the little Ms. Daae. She began to see him as a mentor, and even began to idolize him as she grew older. He saw her as an outlet to his artistic genius, and was exceedingly proud as she excelled under his guidance.

To his slight dismay and uncertainty, however, he found himself growing more and more protective of the growing little girl he had comforted years ago. When Christine was twelve and Meg Giry made fun of her hair, calling her a poodle, the ballet mistress' daughter found herself with a broken ankle the next day. When asked how she had gotten it by her mother, she answered dazedly that she couldn't remember. And so the unshakable Madame Giry began to fear Erik, the very same boy she had helped years ago.

Later that day, Christine had run to him, crying, with scissors, threatening to shred off her beautiful chocolate curls. He convinced her to put the damn scissors down, before she hurt herself, and then he had come out, sitting with her in the chapel.

_"I think your hair is lovely," he said gently, stroking her curls. She raised her tearstained face to look at him._

_"Really?" she sniffled, rubbing her swollen eyes._

_"Really." he replied._

_"So I don't look like a poodle?" she cried, for her tears still hadn't dried._

_"No," he chuckled, "But Meg Giry looks like an ugly lap dog." At this, Christine giggled and nodded, shamelessly wiping her nose and then wiping her hand on her dress. "She does! And she sounds like one too!" she had agreed._

Erik chuckled at the memory; sometimes he wished things could return to the way they were, with Christine as a mere twelve year old, with skinny limbs, wide eyes and a flat chest. There was a time when he could look at her almost as a daughter, and dote on her without feeling like a deviant. During the years he spent training Christine's voice to perfection, he also found his need for women's flesh begin to wane, replaced by a need to be with Christine. Not in a sexual sense, but a soulful sense, almost. He simply found a friend in her, and he enjoyed ever minute they were together.

All of that changed, however, as Christine got older. Out of the blue, it seemed, Erik noticed how white her skin was. Not deathly pale, like Giry's, but white, like porcelain. And smooth, like velvet. Despite feeling disgusted with himself for occasionally becoming aroused in her presence, he couldn't help but marvel at how smooth she was, and cool to the touch, like glass. He noticed a new birthmark on her flawless skin nearly every time he saw her, it seemed, and began fantasizing about touching the small brown marks with his lips, his tongue.

Once, Erik walked to the dormitories where she slept and changed with the other girls, to pick her up for her lesson, and accidentally caught a glimpse of her changing out of her nightgown and into her day dress. And even now, as he remembered the sight, it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Erik saw her from an opening in the rear of the dormitories, as he had come through the back ways to prevent being seen. He felt his breath catch in his throat and his feet stopped dead in their tracks. The dormitory was empty, as it was the Christmas week, so the girls had all gone home for the holidays. Christine seemed to take advantage of the privacy, for she changed out of her flimsy nightgown agonizingly slowly.

She wore nothing underneath it except for airy pantalets, and as Erik saw her nearly naked body for the first time ever, he suddenly felt very dizzy. She had just turned fourteen, and her body was beginning to take the shape of a young woman. His gaze focused on her face, her beautiful porcelain face. She looked serene, and yawned a sweet feminine yawn as she stretched her arms, bringing her barely there breast buds high and tight on her chest.

Erik felt his breath catch, and he loosened his cravat slightly.

Her breasts were white, even whiter then her face, and they gave way to pink nipples. Erik had seen many women's naked bodies, and many colors to describe their nipples, from brown to purple, but Christine's were just pink. They looked so terribly _young_ that he felt an unbearable wave of guilt wash over him for spying on her like this. He nearly decided to leave and come back when she was properly dressed and no longer a threat, but a minute later, his eyes and body were glad he decided to stay.

Christine had begun to remove her pantalets, slowly and carefully. From his view, Erik had a clear view of her now exposed _white_ bottom and thighs. Her legs were long and no longer skinny, but _slender,_ and they eventually turned into her behind, the roundest and sweetest looking he had ever seen. She turned slightly, and bent down, giving Erik a full access view to her bottom and everything in between, then stood up with fresh undergarments in her hand.

He felt a slight sheen of sweat break out across his forehead, and despite cursing himself a thousand times over, calling himself filthy, depraved, a pedophile, he turned his head back to watch her.

Now, almost as though she was dressing just for him, she turned around, so that he had an even better view of her breasts, belly, and, _dear God!_ Erik's eyes felt like they were bulging from their sockets. Every woman he had been with had hair between her legs. Erik had simply accepted it, for so did he, and simply couldn't imagine a hairless, well, _woman._ Now, however, he could see that Christine still _was_ a little girl. The area between her legs looked as hairless and smooth as the skin of her face. He shivered.

Slowly, before she donned her corset and other under things, her hands began to caress herself. Erik couldn't believe his eyes. Her fingers fluttered along her neckline, then dipped to the shallow valley between her breasts, and he heard her breath quicken. Her hand cupped one tiny breast and her eyes fluttered shut, but then she continued, running her hand over her supple abdomen. When her fingers moved from her inner thighs, then out of sight, Erik felt he would have a heart attack.

Christine's eyes had widened considerably, and she gasped softly as her fingers presumably stroked her budding maidenhood. Then she glanced at the clock again, and swiftly yanked her hand out from its hiding place, only to shriek in fear as she looked upon her fingers.

Blood stained her fingernails, and her fingers down to her knuckles.

Later that day, Erik learned that Christine had her first monthly bleeding, and actually wasn't in any mortal danger, despite her determination in believing that scenario. Erik himself had spent the rest of the day in his home, with a cold brandy in his hand and ice on his forehead, and didn't come out for several days.

Now, his little protégé was about to turn fifteen, _very_ soon, and she looked to Erik as ripe as a plum. He did try, he told himself, he _did_ try to see her in a noble light, as the little seven year old he kissed on the forehead at night, but he was beyond any help. He needed her. _Now. _It had been far too long since he'd had a woman, and his subconscious mind blamed her for it.

He began to resent her, for silly things, stupid things that weren't her fault. It became her fault if his _appendage_ burned at him so badly that he would have to stop their lessons to relieve himself. When La Sorelli tried to explain sex to her but couldn't, for Christine's innocent little mind couldn't handle anything beyond hearing that she would have to get _naked _some day, in front of a _man, _he grew angry. Why couldn't she grow up? He had spoiled her, sheltered her, beyond a doubt. And just as a pampered child suffered most when they were cut from their parents' wallet and left on their own, Christine would have to suffer for Erik's coddling.

The thought hurt him and saddened him, but aroused him nonetheless.

He flipped the latch on Carlotta's dressing room mirror and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Suppressing a chuckle as he remembered his many liaisons with the temperamental diva (the reason for the one way mirror), Erik walked deftly through the door and into the dark halls. It was night, nearly ten o clock, and the corridors were empty.

Coming to the girls' dormitories, Erik peeked in through the same crack in the wall as when he had spied on her changing. Almost two dozen sleeping girls met his sight, all wearing the same flimsy nightdress in the same bed, under the same covers. He quickly scanned the sea of females, searching for _his_ Christine, until he spotted her.

Luckily, her bed was just near the door, so he wouldn't have to climb about the distinctly _female_ room to get to her. He turned around and made his way through the darkness, to Christine, his cloak billowing behind him. It was really an unnecessary accessory, and even a nuisance at times, but he liked it all the same. It made him feel important and dangerous.

Minutes later, he was creeping through the doorway and bearing down upon his angel. Damn, she _looked _like an angel! She was lying on her side, and the covers were wrapped snuggly around her tiny form. Her hair, the pretty hair Giry made fun of, was spread across her back, the sheets, the covers, and the pillow, looking softer then angels' wings. Even in her sleep, she was smiling slightly, as though she were having a good dream.

Erik sighed; this was harder then he thought. He sat down gingerly on the side of her bed, so his lower back was pressed into the cradle of her lap, and slumped slightly, running a hand over his hair. She was innocent and young, not ready for anything more trying than a day dancing silly ballet moves. If Erik did what he was planning to do, he could only imagine the emotions that would plague her. The damn girl didn't even know what sex _was, _save for she had to get naked in front of her husband. How would she handle it? _Could _she handle it?

He sighed once more, then reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a rag and a vial. He poured some of the sweet smelling liquid onto the rag, then grasped Christine's shoulder firmly. Her eyes fluttered opened, then widened when she saw Erik. He raised a finger to his mouth, then pressed the rag to her nose.

She fainted instantly.

Glancing around the room warily, ready to knockout any more girls who happened to wake up, Erik slowly rose from the bed. He lifted her up and heaved her over his shoulder, so her bottom was nearly in his face. Wincing, he gently and hastily fixed her nightgown so it was no longer indecently showing anyone who happened to be awake the _real _Christine, and then left the room without a trace.

He reached Carlotta's dressing room swiftly, and set Christine down on the chaise lounge in the corner. Her head lolled to one side and she slid down as though her bones had disappeared, until she hit the ground with a muffled _thump._ Erik winced; he glanced around, out the door, to see if anyone was coming, but the corridor was clear. He unhinged the latch quickly, then reached down and picked Christine up again, then carried her into the muggy darkness.

As they made their way down the tunnels leading into the very womb of the Opera Populaire, Erik felt Christine's skin grow slightly damp, despite her being unconscious. He gently rested his hand on her thigh, and realized how much her temperature had spiked in the simple journey from the dormitories. Along with the _feel _of her sweat covering her skin, Erik could also _smell_ her sharper then ever. Her hair smelled like gardenias, and her body smelled sweet, and, to Erik's surprise, almost a bit like the brothels rooms had smelled when he had finished with the women.

Chancing a glance at her face, Erik swiftly snuck his hand into her nightgown, and then into her pantalets. Her young sex was even warmer then the rest of her body; in fact, as he let his fingers explore her slightly, over his shoulder, she was burning up! He looked back over his shoulder, at her face, and pressed the back of his other palm against her forehead. She was warm, yes, and slightly sweaty, but he was certain she didn't have a fever.

They reached the small gondola, and Erik set her down gently. Her nightdress was bunched up around her waist, and her pantalets were slightly askew, but this time, Erik didn't bother fixing them. He rowed them swiftly and silently across the murky canals, staring at her, captivated, the entire time. As he stole a glance between her slightly sweaty thighs, he could feel himself grow stiff and excited- they were almost there. He forced himself to calm down, for both of their sakes, and took a deep breath.

Just minutes later, Erik was finally carrying her up the stone stairs leading to his house. Her head kept rolling from side to side, and her mouth was hanging open slightly. Before he could stop himself, he imagined thrusting his aching, needy shaft into her small warm mouth, and nearly came right there.

He _had_ to get to his room, right away.

He brought her into his bedroom, with the swan shaped bed and velvet blankets, and set her down atop them. Rather, he _dumped_ her onto it, in his haste to undress and wake her up. He quickly removed another vial from his coat, set it down on a small table, and then began stripping down, until all he was wearing was his trousers. Glancing at Christine, who was as sweet and silent as an angel, Erik scowled. He reached down and swiftly yanked down her pantalets, leaving her _quite_ open and exposed.

He turned around and left the room for a moment, then returned with a glass of cool brandy in his hand. Christine stirred slightly, so that her legs were no longer baring her soul to Erik, and he frowned. He downed the glass in two gulps, then wiped his mouth on his arm.

It was time.

Grabbing the vial from the table, her climbed into the bed next to her, moved her up slightly and straightened her out, then waved the vial under her nose. Christine scrunched up her nose and shuddered. Her eyes fluttered open, and once more, widened when she saw Erik. In a split second, she realized that she was no longer in the dormitories, she was not wearing her underwear, and Erik was in a bed with her. Confused and slightly frightened, she opened her mouth to speak, but Erik once more pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shhh..." he whispered.

He leaned in swiftly, and kissed her, hard, on her unsuspecting mouth. Christine gasped; what was he _doing_? She tried to pull away, but his right hand grabbed her left arm firmly, and pulled her even closer to him. Finally, when he was done, he pulled back and looked her in the eye.

She was trembling, and breathing hard, almost _panting_, and she looked frightened. Her eyes filled with tears of confusion, and she tried to pull away from Erik once more.

"Erik?" she asked in a wavery voice. "_Angel_?"

Erik closed his eyes and sighed, then shook his head, as though to clear away cobwebs. Without another word, he reached down and began pulling her nightdress over her head. She struggled slightly, and kept trying to pull away from him, but he pressed one hot, heavy hand on her stomach, _firmly_, so she couldn't move.

His eyes widened at the sight of her body, completely naked and up close. She was even more beautiful then when he had seen her before. Her skin was damp and warm, and she smelled so _female_ that Erik felt his arousal strain against his pants painfully. She seemed to feel him, against her bare thigh, and her eyes widened alarmingly wide.

"Erik?" she asked, pitifully, frantically. Even for someone who didn't know the workings of sex, she seemed to get the basic idea of what he wanted. "Please, stop. I-I don't like this!"

He sighed, and his eyes left her terrified face to explore the rest of her body. Her legs were long and shapely, and they widened slightly around her hips. She noticed where he was looking, and saw the hungry expression on his face. He felt her wiggle around beneath him, and realized that she was trying to cover herself up.

Erik almost felt bad for her pathetic attempts at modesty and protection, but the smell, that _smell _of _her_ kept wafting up into his nostrils, destroying any pity he felt. He was a man, and he needed what he needed. It was just too bad for Christine that she happened to be what he wanted.

He grabbed one slender thigh strongly, and pulled it away from the other. He heard noises behind his head, and realized that Christine had begun to cry. He set his sights on her core again, and walked his fingers along her inner thigh, and then _her._

She gasped loudly, and slammed her legs shut, momentarily squishing Erik's hand right in between them. By squeezing her legs together, she had forced his hand to press against her sex even harder, which caused her to yelp and jerk, and open her legs once more.

Erik chuckled and stroked her sex slowly, feeling how damp she was. He doubted she was wet from arousal, and decided that she was probably just terrified. He ran his finger back and forth along the very edge of her opening, and he could feel her wriggling beneath him.

"No!" she said through tears, "What are you doing? Stop! I don't like this! Please, Erik! _Angel_!"

He ignored her, and began gyrating his hips against her thighs, groaning as he felt his _pleading _manhood strain even harder. He glanced up, and caught her eye, and saw sheer terror. She gaped like a fish at him, then slowly looked down, at his midsection. She was silent for a moment, and looked from his grinding hips to his face, then _slowly_ looked between her own thighs.

Erik could practically see the wheels in her brain turning, until she finally seemed to realize what Erik was about to do. Her expression was one of disgust, disbelief, wonder, fear, confusion, and shock. She reached up her hands and began hitting Erik's shoulders as hard as she could, crying again, and tried to get away from the protruding bulge in his pants.

He winced at her hands, then suddenly sat up on his heels. Christine stopped struggling for a moment, and gazed up at him fearfully. He began unbuttoning his pants, then slid them off, leaving him completely exposed to Christine's virgin eyes. She stared, _stared _at his enormous manhood, the only one she had ever seen, and her jaw dropped open unknowingly. She felt her breath catch, and she gulped, then slowly looked up at him.

The expression in his eyes was pure _lust._

Christine suddenly regained her senses, and took the opportunity to scramble up and try to run out of the bed. She succeeded, but the only candle burning was next to his bed, so the rest of the room was black. She ran about for a bit, trying to find the door, when she felt a huge body grab her from behind.

Erik wrapped his arms around her stomach and lifted her easily, dodging her flying feet. She had begun kicking at the air, trying to kick anything, and crying out hoarsely. He swung her back into the bed, and quickly climbed on top of her. Wordlessly, he tried to calm her down, smoothing her hair and placing his hand atop her heart gently. She kept crying, and weakly tried to push him away, but he gently took her wrists and held them above her head.

Erik now focused his attention on his throbbing, aching sex. He nudged himself in between her legs, and she began panting, so much that he feared her to give herself a heart attack. Erik licked his fingers quickly, then prodded them into her core, trying to lubricate her as much as possible. He leaned in to claim her mouth again, but she wrenched her head away from him with a whimper, so that her head was turned to the side.

Erik chuckled, and merely kissed Chrsitine's neck instead, sucking the pale skin hungrily. When he tired of her neck, he jerked her head back to face him, and grabbed her lips with his in a powerful, passionate kiss. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and attempted to entwine it with hers, but she evaded him even there. He began chasing her tongue around in her own mouth, until she was forced to gag from her efforts to avoid him.

He began to grow restless again, so without warning he grabbed her thighs and lifted them up, so they were wrapped around his waist. His _cock_ was screaming to be released, to plunge into _something_, and he had no desire to deny it any longer. Christine tried to escape, or just get _away _from him once more, but there was no way in hell Erik was letting her go.

The sensation of him nudging her, rubbing against her, just _touching_ her with his manhood was so foreign to Christine that she feared she wouldn't be able to handle it much longer. She already felt lightheaded and dizzy from being swung about in the air by him, and wouldn't be surprised if she fainted. Vaguely, she remembered overhearing the older girls talking about sex one day, when she was still too young to understand what they were talking about.

_"My first time didn't hurt at all." La Sorelli bragged. The other girls sighed in envy; their lovers hadn't been gentle, and it had hurt them all terribly._

_"Why not?" Jacqueline asked jealously._

_"Because Johannes was no bigger then my pointer finger!" she laughed, pointing her finger out and showing everyone. The girls had shrieked with laughter, but Christine had no idea what was so funny. How could someone be as small as a finger? Later on, she asked La Sorelli what she had meant, and the older girl had smiled wisely at her._

_"Just try to have a small man for you first time. If he's small, it won't hurt you, little Christine." she advised._

Even though she had never seen any other _men_ before, Christine knew without a doubt that Erik was _big._ It strained from his body, and had thick, protruding veins all about it. Also, she had caught a glimpse of two separate circular looking things, below the enormous phallus. He was also covered in thick, coarse, curly hair that tickled her legs and sex. Once more, she tried unhooking her legs from around his backside, but he just pressed harder, almost as though he were scolding her with his body.

Erik couldn't take it any longer. Without any further ado, he thrust his shaft into Christine's body as hard as he could.

He almost died from the sensation. She was like nothing he had ever felt before- hot, _burning_ hot, and tighter then the smallest crevice in the Opera Populaire. Above his head, he heard her let out a blood curling scream. He vaguely heard her shrieking for him to stop, it hurt, it hurt so _badly_, but he ignored her.

Slowly, he pulled out slightly, and he heard her catch her breath hopefully, but he just plunged back into her again, groaning as he felt himself being squeezed into oblivion by her young body. She shrieked again, and this time, Erik actually worried that her cries might be heard outside of his den. He slapped his palm to her mouth to silence her, and continued sinking into her heavenly depths.

He felt her clench her muscles around him, in an instinctive and worthless attempt to push him out, but it only caused him to groan in pleasure, and her to cry in pain behind his hand. She twisted and writhed beneath him, sobbing violently, but he was enormous, in every sense, and unmovable. His girth stretched her, by God, it _stretched_ her, more then anything she ever thought possible.

For every thrust of his body, his chest crushed her breasts, causing them to ache terribly. His hips crashed into her pelvic bone, scooting her up on the bed, and slamming her shoulders into the headboard. The hair around his groin no longer tickled, but scratched and itched and burned her smooth, nearly hairless skin. And his distinctively _male_ instrument that he kept plunging into her burned, stung, stretched, filled, tortured, and just _hurt_ her. She had felt the tip of it nudge her down there, trying to find an opening, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, it plunged deep _inside_ of her, breaking something that didn't feel like it was meant to be broken.

"Christine..."

Erik nearly grunted her name, loving every minute of her, every smell of her, every sound of her. Her body clasped him, clung to him, and stuck to him, making him shudder. She had begun crying again, and he looked up at her, for the first time since he first thrust into her.

Her head was turned to the side, with her cheek pressed into the soft fabric of the sheets. He realized, with a stab of guilt, that she was trying to find comfort and solace in his _linens_, and was calling out to someone. With a pang, he heard her calling for her father to save her and make it stop.

Over and over again, she cried pitifully, "_Papa! Papa! It hurts, papa, he's hurting me! Make him stop, papa, please!"_

He groaned; as much as hearing her brokenly calling to her dead father hurt him, his body had still been moving within her, and now he felt himself nearing the end. But her voice was there, high pitched and young, not wanting this, not deserving this, calling out to her papa, asking where her angel had gone. With every last thrust it seemed she dealt him another heapful of guilt upon his shoulders, until he couldn't take it anymore.

"_Silence!"_ He bellowed, striking her across the face with his free hand.

Christine gave a mixture of a cry and a gasp. No one had ever struck her before. Ever. Madame Giry had tugged her ear once, when she was late to practice. And Erik had made it clear to the ballet mistress that no one was to ever lay a hand on his little Christine in anger again.

But here he was, backhanding her! Her cheek burned from the impact of his hot, rough hand against her soft porcelain skin. Her body ached terribly from his invasion on her body, and she was becoming more exhausted by the minute. She was losing her breath, gasping for air as his weight nearly crushed her lungs.

Erik could feel it coming, any minute. His toes curled and his back tightened, and he reached up, taking one of her wrists in each of his hands. She yelped in fear, apprehensive of what he was going to do now, but he merely laced his fingers with hers, and squeezed tightly. He was slightly in shock that he had hit her; his intention all night hadn't been to hurt her, but to simply fulfill his desires. He shrugged it off and continued, making up for the slap with gentle squeezing of her hands, and soft kisses to her forehead.

Suddenly, he felt it; the unmistakable tightening of his bottom, thighs, calves, feet, and toes. That delicious heat spreading through his stomach and fingers. Even Christine helped, for she again tried to force him out, unconsciously tightening her muscles around him. He sucked in a great breath of air, thrust one last time, harder then ever, and groaned long and loud. He planted his seed deep within her tiny womb, and felt its heat and her heat combine around him.

He collapsed on top of her, his breathing labored, and pressed his face into the shallow valley between her breasts.

Christine trembled violently. Or as much as she could. Erik seemed to have finished, for his breathing was strained and slow, and he was nearly crushing her, even more so then before. He was lying directly on her body, rather then propping himself up on his elbow and giving her _some_ room to breath. Then, she felt him move about slightly above her, and she braced herself for another time. But no, he simply pulled himself out of her swiftly and began climbing off of her.

She winced when he pulled his shaft out of her aching vagina; it was like pulling out a splinter. Terrible pain while it was inside, only to increase while it was being pulled out. She felt him get up completely, and saw his shadow wiping himself off with a towel, then pull on fresh trousers. She felt her eyesight grow hazy again, from lack of oxygen, and for the second time that night, felt herself lose consciousness.

The last thing she remembered was Erik pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Several hours later, Erik got up from his organ and walked into his kitchen to fetch salve and towels. After he found the softest ones he had, he walked back into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. Christine was still sleeping, and he could see goose bumps on her skin. She looked cold.

He smiled sadly and touched her shoulder gently, waking her up. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked about fearfully, before seeing Erik.

"No," she whispered, scrambling away from, "Not again, please, not again!"

He shook his head and grabbed her naked waist, then pulled her into his lap. She struggled, but he held on to her firmly, and began rocking her back and forth, singing softly in her ear.

"_Angel of music, hide no longer...come to your strange angel."_

Christine began crying, and even kicked Erik in the stomach several times, to which he grunted angrily, but eventually calmed down and merely lay in his arms like a baby. "Good girl." he whispered, smoothing her hair and stroking her arms. He leaned down and kissed her lips in desire, and she winced and pulled her head away. He sighed, then reached for the salve and poured some onto the rag, then reached over and lit a candle, illuminating her in a warm, dark glow.

She had some bruises on her hips and legs, and as Erik glanced at his sheets, he saw a large blood stain from his intrusion. There was also blood on her thighs, which Erik began to wipe away gently with the rag. He moved his hand up farther and tried cleaning between her legs, but she suddenly came to life it seemed, and began wriggling away from him.

"No, _please_, not again! Please, it hurts so much, I don't want to do it again!" she wailed, flailing away from him. Erik frowned and held on to her hips tighter; so tightly in fact, that her breathing became labored and she calmed almost instantly. "Don't force me to strike you again," he warned, gently wiping away the blood between her legs. She sucked in a breath and turned to face him; it was then he realized that her right cheek was slightly swollen and red.

Erik shook his head and continued cleaning her up, moving the rag as far up to her belly button and bottom before finishing. He simply held her, and shushed her when he heard her crying. Despite the course of the night's actions, Christine clung to him, merely wanting _someone_ to hold and comfort her, and sobbed into his chest.

They sat there together for hours, until she finally fell asleep again, the red on her cheek now an ugly bruise. Erik glanced at the clock and saw that it was well past twelve o clock. He smiled slightly, and leaned down, so he could whisper in Christine's ear.

"_Happy birthday, my angel."_


End file.
